The swish of her blue jeans and the creak of her shoes as she walks through the cubicles.
Malcolm's coughing early in the morning.
Logs ready to crumble in the wood stove.
Thoughts that flit like dragonflies and are gone.
Jerry's chemo hats — misshapen, warm, soft, and not often used because he didn't lose his hair from the radiation for his brain cancer.
Matisse's rage-driven writing.
The ache in my belly.
Leaves shining in the sun.
The compliments my gloves get everywhere.
Counting calories: cookies, salad, carrots, a clementine.
Unable to visit my folks because the boys have whooping cough.
The clarity of knitting stitch after stitch, trying it on as you go, getting the fit right. Winding yarn, a slow rhythm ever alert for tangles.
The leaves shining in the brilliance of the morning sun.
The calico cat Nell trotting across the yard to meet me.
Remus John's fierceness over his math.
Garry's unexpected tendernesses.
The scent of orange/tangerine being peeled.
Degeneration of handwriting long unused.
Poetry in motion.
The sounds of a copier: kerchunk kerchunk beep beep beep kerchunk kerchunk thump beep beep, shuffling paper.
Shapeless green corduroy knapsack/purse, appealing somehow.
Zipping my life into packages/compartments: laptop, papers, laptop power supply, water bottle, commuter tea mug, lunch stuff, keys, wallet, change, badge, knife, fork, napkin, tupperwares, chapstick, handkerchief, pens.
All the stuff to keep track of.
Years of carrying a diaper bag in one arm and the baby in the other.